Blood and Snow
by Reverant
Summary: A penguin running from a dark past. A walrus with a jaunty hat. Tennessee Tuxedo and Chumley investigate a series of murders while Tux grapples with blood-soaked nightmares of guilt.
1. Chapter 1: Grin and Bear

_My name is Reverant, and this is my first short story effort... ever. I wanted to start with a little overview of what's going on here. Skip to the story if you're familiar with the cartoon or bored by explanations. Please review if you've read more than... oh, I'll say ten words!_

_Show Notes: For the uninitiated, "Tennessee Tuxedo and His Tales" was a short lived cartoon series that ran in the sixties, and it was made by the same company that went to on to make "Underdog." In the early nineties, segments of Tennessee Tuxedo were incorporated into a larger broadcast segment that included Rocky & Bullwinkle and Underdog, which is when I first watched the show. I honestly don't remember much more than that, since I was only around seven years old. Anyway, this was this early attempt to make an educational cartoon. Tennessee Tuxedo (the penguin) and Chumley (the walrus) were a couple bumbling fools that would learn math and science lessons in the process of solving random problems in the episodes. _

_One day, I was reminiscing about the cartoons of my youth and suddenly remembered this one. I joked with my wife how hilarious it would be if they updated it to be modern and gritty (as such things seem to happen with irritating frequency). I wrote this first chapter as a one-shot to amuse my wife and satisfy the ridiculous vision in my head, but over time I wrote a few more dramatic bits for my amusement (Chapter 4 and the final one, to be exact). I decided to force myself to write an entire story out of it, and the fruits of that experiment are gradually showing up here._

_Rating Notes: I didn't give this story an M rating because I thought it would bring all the boys to the yard. It's written by an adult, and it's aimed likewise. There are no humans in this world, but it mirrors our own down to nearly every detail. The story starts with a gruesome murder scene and themes only get heavier as the chapters progress, and they cut deeply into very real and very current issues. "Ripped from today's headlines!" is a retarded phrase, but it works here. It's very likely you'll be surprised, confused, offended, or referring to Wikipedia. You've been warned._

**Grin and Bear**

The old apartment building was like any other in this run-down side of town. Cracked windows, crumbling brick, and the haze of despair that permeated the atmosphere told the story of this neighborhood better than any do-gooder journalist ever could. I glanced at Chumley, who stroked one of his long tusks thoughtfully. He'd grown up on a block like this. He could smell the alcohol on the breath of fathers who stumbled home late, hear the gunshots that rang out in the crisp night air, the shouts of parents and children fighting each other with words and fists. Nobody wins here. Penguins, walruses, hell, even _tigers_ don't make it out of here without losing something. We're all just animals in a cage of poverty.

"Tux," said Chumley, and nodded to a young pup in blue that was walking our way. He'd been waiting at the entrance stairs for us. Being a rookie meant you got the bitch jobs, but having to wait for Mommy and Daddy to show up was sometimes better than hanging out in a room with stiffs. This kid was a mutt of some kind. I grinned internally; 10 years ago, the purebloods wouldn't have given him a shot out in the field. Thought they were inferior half-breeds that couldn't figure out the difference between the toilet and their water bowl.

That all changed when the president held Congress hostage 'til they passed that anti-discrimination amendment. Suddenly the playing field was leveled for animals of all breeds, not just the purebloods and the "right" species. That was one hell of a good thing for them to do, though it took some time for people to accept it. Sure made a difference in the force, too. The purebloods they kept trying to hire always developed joint problems too early in life and had to medically retire. It cost a lot of money to give them benefits and train new recruits. Thinking back to a time when your average Joe said mixed breeds were inferior is almost impossible. Guys like this young pup were always stronger, faster, and quicker on the uptake. Hell, you could even teach the older mutts new skills once they got too old for field work.

"Good evening, Detectives," he said politely. His badge said Westin. He looked like a rott-shephard mix.

_Probably stronger and faster than his Lieutenant and Captain combined,_ I thought. _We could use more guys like this._

"What do we got?" asked Chumley.

"Three bodies." He was looking at my partner, but his eyes flicked to me for a brief second. He was the sensitive type. "Pinguinos. We're practically in the barrios, so I wouldn't be surprised if there was some gangland shit going on."

Pinguinos, our cousins from the far southern latitudes, had literally flocked to New York in the past few decades by the tens of thousands. With so many immigrants and so little room, they were forced to live in the poorest and most crowded neighborhoods. They didn't speak much English, had little to no formal education, and flippers are so damn worthless it's nearly impossible to get a job doing manual labor. These were deep sea fishers, and trust me, you don't want to dive deep into the New York harbor. Down on their luck, many of them sought the true refuge of the poor: drugs, violence, and prostitution. Mostly confined to the barrios, they lived in their own private hell, specially reserved for those who weren't born again with the grace of money. I pulled my hat low over my eyes, almost down to my beak. Upper-class penguins were too ashamed to call them their own, and that made us accomplices in damnation.

"Take us up, Westin," I said to the rookie. He nodded, and opened the right side of metal double doors that were decorated with graffiti and peeling gray paint. I'd bet you a million bucks it was full of lead.

Inside was no less pleasant than outside. Before us lay a long hallway lined with tattered brown carpet. The walls, where they weren't tagged by thugs, were that gritty beige of electronics manufactured in the nineties. Some doors were broken in, hanging on their hinges. In some places, there were no doors at all. The air was musty, putrid. It stank of mold, urine, and vomit. A smoker didn't need to light up in here; he could get all the smoke and poisonous fumes he wanted by opening his big mouth. No sane person would raise a kid here, but further down in the hallway I could see a pink tricycle turned on its side.

"_It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day in the neighborhood,_"I sang quietly. "_Won't you be mine? Won't you be… my neighbor?"_

"Tux, you are one creepy man," intoned Chumley from behind me.

"Have to lighten the mood somehow. Why don't you sing along?"

I could hear him clench his tusks behind me. "Because I am not insane."

"Very well then," I said, and continued humming.

Westin led us down the hallway to a stairwell in the center of the building. I was stupid enough to glance in one of the apartments with a door missing on the way. Inside, the carpet had been torn up to reveal the cold, gray cement below. A few folding chairs were placed in a circle in the otherwise bare room, and a Foldger's coffee can sat in the middle of the chairs. It was probably the only thing that kept some pinguino family from freezing to death in winter. Some in the media said they were here to steal jobs from America. I say it's more accurate that our fair country stole their lives.

"Rookie, let me give you some advice. Never love anybody," I told Westin.

"Yes, sir," he replied. He led us to a door on the fourth floor and stopped. "This is it."

"Forensics inside?" I asked.

"Not yet. They're on their way."

"We'll be sure not to step in too much blood then," said Chumley.

Westin winced, then assumed the position of sentry outside the door. He wouldn't be going inside with the bodies. Bitch jobs really do have their perks.

"Shall we?" I asked, and then opened the door.

Your heart isn't the only part of your body that becomes deadened to reality after 20 years on this job. The odor of death was magnificently powerful, but it had little effect. You see, smell, taste, and whatever the hell else you feel with everywhere you go. I see it in my dreams, and I see it in the empty space next to me in bed every morning. Death follows you until he decides he's ready for you. Smelling him stops scaring you after awhile.

The apartment was small. A small hallway led to the kitchen, living room, and bedroom, conveniently located in one dirty little square room. The third of the room devoted to kitchen was lined with cheap linoleum; the rest of the room was stripped. A foldaway bed was tucked into the wall. A small television with rabbit ear antennae sat on the window sill, and a battered wooden chair was propped in front of it. Two officers, a goose and a puma, shifted idly. They were waiting for the clean-up crew, all the while trying not to stare at their charges.

The first body lay in the kitchen, slumped against the cabinet under the sink in a pool of blood. His eyes and beak were wide in shock. Well, wide is a misnomer. Just above the beak, his face was badly mauled. Closest thing to hamburger you could make a penguin's face, anyway. His neck was similarly a mess. It looked like it'd been crushed by someone strong. I bent over to get a closer look. My suspicions were confirmed. Claw marks ran deep across his face, and at the back of the neck I could see where the claws had sunk in to flesh when the murderer's titan-like grip closed around his neck. The killer was strong enough to crush the neck and snap the neck.

"I doubt even Officer Kitty Cat back there could do this," I said. Chumley nodded.

"Yeah, he had to be a big fellow. Bigger than me, even. I'd say 19, maybe 20 hands. I'd guess a lion."

"You _would_ guess lion. What do you have against African-Americans, anyway? Killer lions, speeding cheetahs, stalking hippos…"

Chumley sniffed. He was a little uptight, but a great guy. I knew he didn't think in those terms, but I couldn't help rib him sometimes.

"That hippo _confessed_, and you want to talk about that cheetah? His spots were matched by four different cameras."

"Easy, easy. Yeah, I'm guessing a lion, too. Officers!" I called to the pair in the entryway. "Any witnesses?"

"None that were credible, sir," replied the goose. She was young and not unattractive. Her beak was well curved, in any case. "We found a pair of Siberian tigers about three doors down that said they always hear screaming, but they were high out of their minds on heroin. The room was covered in needles."

"You found tigers next door to a penguin mauled to death, and that didn't strike you as strange?" snapped Chumley.

"No sir," piped up the puma. "There was no sign of blood, and they were completely nuts. They kept shouting 'Moose and squirrel! Moose and squirrel!' over and over again, laughing. Besides, they were…" He trailed off.

"They were what?" said Chumley.

"Declawed?" I asked quietly. Puma jerked towards me. He nodded and sighed.

"I checked them myself, sir. They're just a couple of coked-out and declawed Russkies. They didn't hurt anybody."

I saw the recognition in my partner's eyes. Some crazy-right wingers in the last administration got it in their hands that clawed immigrants, especially from the Middle East and Central Asia, were walking terrorist time bombs. For three years, all 'predator' species from those regions were subject to random declawing procedures for the 'greater good.' I'd even heard rumors of secretive spay and neuter operations, but never found any proof. The Supreme Court overturned the executive order that had set off the procedures in the first place, but the damage was done. Untold thousands of people, fresh off the boat, had been stripped of dignity and pride. Like the pinguinos, they had nowhere to go but down.

"You want to see them, Tux?"

"No, Chumley. I don't think we'll get anything out of them." _They're losers_, _and sooner or later, you know they'll be dead._ "Let's see the others."

"One was stuffed in the hallway closet. The other is in the bathroom," said the goose. Her nametag said Olson. Her accent was slight, but I caught it in the vowels. It was whimsical, out of place in a grisly murder scene.

"You from Wisconsin, Olson?" I asked.

"Minnesota. In the north, near Hibbing," she replied.

"No offense, but nobody cares about Butthole Midwest Town, USA," said Chumley. "Show me the bodies."

"Chumley, my friend, the door is in front of you, but you are missing the key. Hibbing is the birthplace of none other than Bob Zimmerman," I chided.

"The world's most boring Jewish wolf?"

"That's Bob Dylan's real name, Chum."

"Ah. I love _American Pie_." He smiled. I frowned at him. "Yes, I know that was Don McLean," he added after a second.

I walked over to the closet, and pulled the door open. I heard Olson gasp behind me. She wasn't dead to reality yet. Inside was another penguin, dead and loving it. He was severely mauled, just like the first. Claws had raked the poor fowl head to toe, and blood stained his white chest red. His beak had been brutally crushed halfway to the face. What remained was a haunting, cracked stubbed. My eyes and brain stopped as I scanned the right side of the body. There was a bloody hole on the side. He was missing a flipper.

"Jesus!" I shouted, invoking the name of the Holy Lamb. Chumley would disapprove of my language, but the brutality of the dismemberment shocked me. I didn't take much stock in His Holy Fleeceness anymore, but sometimes He rolled off my tongue unbidden. I stepped away from the closet and closed the door.

"What? Was it that bad?" Chumley stroked his tusk. Even after all these years, I could never tell exactly what was going on in that walrus skull of his.

"I think our perpetrator may in fact be a walking blender. That guy was shredded to bits."

"I think I'll pass. I'll check the bathroom." Chumley turned to the door across the hallway and opened it. I could see a body on the floor, again in a pool of blood. I looked at the ceiling.

_This isn't a drive-by mauling. These guys made someone angry. Whoever killed these guys wanted something, and these penguins came up short. They chose the wrong guy to disappoint._

"Tux," called Chumley. There was a warning note in his voice. "Don't come in here."

I looked at the two younger cops. Puma shrugged, but Goose was looking down, avoiding my eyes. "What's up, Chum?"

"You don't want to see this. Stay out, please." There was a pleading note in his voice. This was nonsense.

"Pal, I've been on the job for _twenty years_. I don't need you to protect my virginity," I began and pushed my way into the bathroom. "I'm not some retarded…"

I stop.

I see the body.

My here and now becomes then and there and the why and where is wretched from the grasp of reality. I see her body on the bathroom floor_ I'm holding my sister in my arms, the bleeding won't stop_ Those claw marks aren't from a lion _'White,' manages my sister 'Huge.' She shouldn't be speaking_ I've seen this before _The bodies of my family litter the snow, everyone except_ Twenty years ago _Where is she? My sister doesn't know where my wife is_ She wasn't in on the deal _Our nest, our child gone beneath blood and snow_ I stare into the eyes of the girl on the floor until night falls once again over my heart and consciousness.


	2. Chapter 2: Auk Ward

**Auk Ward**

I came back into the world of the living staring into the eyes of the most beautiful walrus I have ever known.

"You didn't put your mouth on mine, did you?" I asked Chumley.

"I thought about skewering you on my tusk, but then I couldn't make you suffer a humiliating defeat in fantasy football."

"Hey, Brett Favre still has it." I sat up and looked around. We were in the hallway. Chumley was leaning over me. Westin stood by the door, stealing a glance at me occasionally. I could hear a commotion inside the room. Forensics had arrived, and they were working their magic.

"I told you not to go in there. Why don't you listen when I say things like that?"

"I thought you were being coy. How about this: Next time, you just tell me what you see? None of this mysterious crap that makes me more curious. I almost had a heart attack." I found my fedora lying next to me. I brushed it off and returned it to its haberdashery throne atop my head. "It wasn't a polar, was it?"

Chumley sighed. "They don't think so. Forensics found some hair they've identified as Kodiak. They'll have to run some tests to be sure, but for now, it's Kodiak. Also, that chick in the bathroom was an auk, not a penguin."

"I know." I got to my feet. "Probably some stupid rich girl fell for a punk she met at a club. Thought it would be a romantic escape. Pretty young auks get reported missing by their parents sometimes. It usually turns out they ran off with some pinguino."

"Some escape," replied Chumley glibly. "It looks like the place was ransacked, and then re-ordered. Probably happened while the vic in the kitchen was bleeding to death."

"Any thoughts of what our killer was looking for?"

"Guys inside say they suspect fertilizer. They found traces of it under the sink."

I scratched my head. Fertilizer? That was new. "Nobody gets killed for a bag of shit. Not even in the barrio. It had to be some drug score gone wrong." That made more sense in my head.

Chumley shook his head. "High-nitrogen fertilizer has ammonium nitrate. It's used for explosives. Don't you watch CSI?"

"'You mean 'Can't See Inside'? What kind of cop uses a flashlight in a dark room, in the middle of the day, with a perfectly good light switch nearby? Nonsense."

"I watch it for the characters, really," defended Chumley. "That owl Grisham makes the show."

"Sure. But killing for fertilizer makes no sense. Couldn't he have walked into Home Depot and bought some? He could have paid cash if he was worried about being traced."

"Unless he wasn't worried about being traced. Maybe he didn't want to be visible, period. Not all the people who disappear in the ghetto are kidnapped. Sometimes, they just want to vanish," said Chumley.

I sighed. "Alright. I want everything. Stoplight and traffic cameras, security feeds from the convenience stores in the area, and every possible witness on this block. Even if invisibility cloaks were real, they wouldn't hide a giant fucking bear covered in blood."

I turned to Westin. Olson and the Puma had exited the apartment and the three of them were huddled in a corner, speaking to each other. "Hey, Harry! Ron! Hermione! Did you hear me?" I snapped at them. "Find me my _oso rojo_."

They jumped. "Yes sir," said Westin. The trio left.

"Okay, so I finally got around to reading Harry Potter," I told Chumley, who was looking at me with a bemused expression. "I might be 45, but that doesn't mean I can't read." Living in the fantasy world of the students at the Manwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was a nice escape from the reality of death and decay. I started for the staircase where the Three Stooges had just disappeared.

"Where are you going?" called Chumley after me.

"To get some coffee. You want to come?" I answered him without turning around. There was a moment's pause before the sound of Chumley's large frame waddling followed me to the staircase.

Frank's Diner is the most delicious shithole you will ever eat at. I've sworn on this fact for 12 years, and it would take a cataclysm of Biblical proportions to make me change my mind. One time, I found a _hoof _in my oatmeal. Frank is such a swell guy he offered me another bowl on the house, but I declined. Hoof aside, that was the best oatmeal I'd eaten in my entire life.

That cold mistress Night had fallen, and she had brought her old "friends-with-benefits" pal Mister Rain with her. A freezing drizzle soaked into my heavy coat and poured off the sides of my fedora. In a few weeks, snow would replace the rain, and the city would be blanketed in white. I shivered as Chumley pulled the door open and we hurried inside. A bell above the door chimed. The place was empty, save for a solitary patron at the far end of the counter. Frank came out of the kitchen, wiping his trotters with a towel.

"Good evening, fellas. What can I get you?" the massive hog asked, gesturing at the counter.

"Coffee, please. And some hashbrowns," I said.

"I'll take some coffee and a number three," Chumley said.

Frank grunted and disappeared into the kitchen, and we took seats at the counter. I laid my coat and hat on stool next to me and loosened my tie. Jenna, Frank's old cow of a wife, emerged from where her husband vanished with two coffee mugs and set them down before us.

"You boys need any cream? It's homemade!" she inquired as she set the sugar in front of us. We shook our heads furiously. Two years ago, Chumley asked Frank how the cream was made. With a sly wink, Frank pantomimed milking an udder and nodded at his wife. I was mid gulp during this conversation, and I spit my coffee out on the floor. I'll never know if he was joking or not, but I won't bet my coffee on it.

"You really freaked everyone out back there. I told those rookies you were just in a crime-trance, enabling you to see details of the murder in your mind with stunning alacrity. I don't think they believed me." Chumley said after a sip.

I shot him a sidelong look. "Thanks. Sorry about the trouble," I muttered.

"Not at all. You know, after twenty years, to still take it that hard, proves you still have a lot of heart in there. I know you like to deny it, but you're a good guy." He continued.

"Thanks Chum. Let's just drop it, alright? We got a case to solve."

Frank reappeared and dropped our plates. The hashbrowns were crispy, the way God intended them to be. Chum poured salt and pepper over his eggs, then broke the yolks. He started the meal with bacon.

"You ever wonder what they make bacon out of?" I asked Chum.

"I try not to. Ignorance is bliss," he replied.

_Amen_, I thought. Truth is a fire on a winter night. You stay close to keep warm, but you never go all in. What was giving you warmth becomes a searing torture. We've all been burned by reality. It's no crime to protect yourself. My world had been razed by the devastating Hell of reality. A monster, more real than a giant but as big as a colossus, left my past in ruins, a pool of hot blood in the numbing, cold snow.

"Jail's too good for that fucker," I murmured into the cup of coffee.

"Tux, we might need to call in the FBI." Chumley was wiping his mouth off with a napkin.

I glanced at Chumley. I knew he was right. If there was a remote possibility of persons unknown hatching a plan that involved explosives, we had to call in the feds. NYPD and the FBI may not have always been great buddies in the past, but the last thing we needed was another attack in Manhattan. If anyone could crack a plot like that, it was the Bureau.

"Normally, I'd argue with you pal, but I have to agree. God knows what kind of crazy terrorist shit people are planning these days…" I trailed off. The solitary stranger at the end of the counter had stopped eating, frozen solid in his seat. A grey wolf, his right ear twitched as if it were trying to pick up signals out of their air on a frequency only he could hear. His yellow eyes met mine. He slowly reached his paw into his large black cloak. I could see the bulge underneath. I sucked in my breath, and my flipper drifted towards the holster at my hip. _Who the fuck is this guy? What the fuck is this?_

Suddenly, the wolf's expression softened, and he smiled. His paw withdrew from the coat bearing a fat, brown wallet. He plucked a couple bills from within, and dropped them on the counter. He stood up, pulled his flowing black coat tight, and stepped out the door without a second glance at me. I didn't take my eyes off him once. I watched him look around outside, and step off down the street in the rain.

I pulled a twenty from my pocket and tossed in on the counter. "Chum, take care of this, would you? I have to make a call real quick." I hurried out the door in pursuit of the wolf before Chumley could say a word.

Yeah, look, I _know. _This is how people die in movies. Follow a perp into a dark alley and get the shit beat out of you when he sneaks up from behind. This ain't a movie, pal. I've been on this beat twenty years, and my first reaction has rarely been the most dangerous. You have to know when to follow your instinct, and tonight, my instinct said, "Tennessee Tuxedo, I bet you're too much of a bitch to follow that guy." Well, here I am! What do you think of that, instinct?

I watched my new lupine buddy disappear around the edge of a building at the end of the block. He moved smooth, nonchalant, but I couldn't shake the feeling he had places to be, people to see. People that wanted to know when cops started talking about calling the FBI in diners. Those old World War 2 posters said "lose beaks cause leaks," but to me, loose beaks are more about dislodging kidney stones like this wolf. Let a couple words slip in the right public space and a good stoolie will race back to his boss to blab all about it. These men are goldmines, opportunities not to be squandered. I checked my gun, and looked around the street. The night was dark, still pouring her tears on the Big Apple. Traffic was nowhere to be seen. Whatever happened, it would be just us two out tonight. I hurried around the corner after the wolf.

I spotted the back of his cloak standing at a bus stop two hundred feet away. He wasn't moving. I took a dozen steps forward, and stopped. His cloak was swaying in the wind, hung on a telephone poll. I had just enough time to turn, put a flipper on my gun, and shout "Shit!"

The wolf, naked save for his boots, stepped out from the shadows of a small alley with a small metal pipe. The warm smile on his face was replaced by a savage, twisted grin, and his eyes gleamed with a queer madness. Then, quick as lightning, he drove the pipe into my stomach.

The pain was simply absurd. I tumbled backwards in breathless agony and landed with a smack on the cold, wet pavement, my hat flopping uselessly beside me. I managed to grab my pistol and raise it blindly. The wolf darted forward and swatted it from my hand. He was panting heavily, but clearly not from exertion. The bastard was electrified, bursting with excitement! He was getting his rocks off by beating me to death. At least I hadn't followed him into an alley.

"Stop!" I gasped like an idiot. "Police!"

Like that would stop him.

The wolf threw back his head and howled a despicable, maniacal laugh. My blood went cold. He bent down over me, his fearsome yellow eyes blazing like wicked suns inches from my face. He continued to laugh, literally in my face, a hoarse, ragged shriek of a laugh. His eyes never broke their gaze with mine. Even his grey fur, soaked and glistening from the rain, emanated a sickly foreboding. Whoever, _whatever_ this creature was, it wasn't sane. Or safe. I had to get away, call for backup.

_Great fucking idea, Tennessee! _I cursed to myself. _This never works the way you think it will!_

The wolf stood hunched over me, staring. Was he waiting for me to make a move?

"The hell do you want? Who the hell are you?" I managed. I was about to vomit Frank's dinner in this monster's face along with a healthy dose of blood.

The wolf's eyes widened, and his grin grew so huge every single fang became exposed. They were as yellow as his eyes, and just as cruel. His breath reeked of death, literally. This guy might be eating other animals. Besides the obvious pipe-to-the-stomach blow and a rabid wolf about to tear my throat out, I felt that there was something very, very wrong here. This wolf was beyond insanity.

"I will fill the hearts of the unbelievers with terror," he rasped, "and I will smite their necks and even every finger!"

His left paw shot forward and gripped the collar of my coat. The other raised the pipe above his head, ready for a final, deadly blow.

"Fuck your crazy shit!" I shouted. I was seconds away from being murdered by a psychopath with a pipe, and that was the best I could come up with.

CRACK! CRACK! Two diminutive thunderclaps rang out in the empty street, followed instantly by a metallic CLANG and the sickening thud of bullets impacting into flesh. The wolf screamed in a blood-curdling concoction of rage, pain, and madness. He collapsed to the ground clutching his left leg. My surprise was quickly replaced by relief, and then gratitude as my savior waddled into view.

Chumley's rather unattractive silhouette stood on the corner of the sidewalk, lit from behind by streetlight. The green sheen of the stoplight glistened off his revolver. His face, still frozen in concentration, was becoming home to rivers of freezing water drops. I hobbled towards him, stooped over and clutching my stomach.

"Two shots?" I wheezed. I was pretty sure I needed to get to the hospital, but I couldn't miss this. "Your aim is getting worse and worse."

"I know," said Chumley gravely. "I was aiming for you."

I tried to laugh, but I mostly gurgled in joyous pain. "Thanks pal. This is the last time I leave you behind like that."

"You say that a couple times a year, you know. And it's always the exact same thing. You get this _instinct_, and then you almost die. If I didn't know better, I'd try to medically separate you from the force for mental retardation," he replied. "Who the hell is that?"

We shuffled over to the wolf, who was curled up on the sidewalk. Blood from his leg was pooling on the sidewalk, mixing with the damned rain. He shuddered like he had a wild fever. He was muttering quietly, rocking and quaking on the ground, completely oblivious to us. He was probably going into shock from the loss of blood. I heard the sound of approaching sirens.

Chumley stroked his tusk. "Should we do something about that leg? I called in backup when you disappeared, but the crew and paramedics won't be here for a few more minutes."

"Nah," I replied, squatting down low. I put my ear near his muzzle. Unsafe? Yes. Best way of listening to a big mad wolf? Absolutely.

"What's he saying?" asked my large partner.

I closed my eyes and tried to focus on the stream of syllables that poured from the wolf. Guttural consonants mixed with snarling vowels in some undecipherable, alien language. It sure as hell didn't sound like anything I knew off the top of my head. I stood up. "Sure as hell isn't English. Sounds familiar, but I can't place it."

Blue and red lights appeared on the buildings at the end of the street, and the siren song of backup squad cars grew louder and louder. The rain had swelled from a depressing evening drizzle into a miserable midnight downpour. I spied my fedora on its side in the gutter, soaking in all of New York's glorious sewage. I plucked it off the street and wringed it out.

"Chum," I said, placing the nasty, hat-shaped sponge on my head, "I think it's past my bed time."

"You and me both," said Chumley. "My wife's going to kill me if I come home reeking of wet fur."

"Shave that shit off, Chum. Naked walruses are hot. So are potatoes." I sat down on the sidewalk."You go home. I think I need to chat with the paramedics."

"That'd be best. You don't exactly sound lucid." Two squad cars and an ambulance squealed to a halt in front of us, and four of our boys in blue climbed out. The paramedics rushed over to the wolf, but Chumley hailed one with a wave. "See you tomorrow, Tux."

I nodded. Chumley walked back towards the diner.

It was day one of a case, and already I'd almost been bludgeoned to death. Things were looking up.


	3. Chapter 3: Tumbling Down the Badger Hole

**Tumbling Down the Badger Hole**

I returned to my apartment that evening, exhausted from the day's events. The bloodied nightmare of the crime scene relentlessly pummeled my senses with the haunting ghosts of death and decay, and visions of red swam before my eyes. The putrid stench of rotting of flesh filled my nostrils. Fueled by the taste of blood, the specters of my past would doubtless seek me in my sleep.

I was in my pathetic excuse for a kitchen, four feet of cabinets, half a stove, and a leaking refrigerator. Paint peeled off the above the stove, occasionally taking a swan dive into whatever fish I decided to boil that night. I reached into the fridge and pulled out the bottle of Grey Goose. I chuckled a little. The name reminded me of that pretty ladybird at the crime scene, Olson. She was a cutie, alright. I wondered if she was single.

"In the words of Mohammed, the furriest cabbie cat this side of Brooklyn, I say to you _salam aleikom_, my friend," I told the bottle of Vodka. I was honoring the fellow that had navigated the rain and traffic to bring me home for the night. Nice guy, bit of an accent though. He was one of those politically correct guys.

"Hasn't it been rough being an Arab in New York?" I had asked him on the drive. "I mean, since 9/11 and all. And now they're trying to make that new YMCA mosque downtown. I bet you catch a lot of shit."

"_Eh baba!, Na!_ I am a _Persian._ My family is from Tabriz, _v'alla._ I have a big difference with Arabs!" He said with somewhat erratic grammar. He took a white, long-haired paw off the steering wheel to wildly jab the air for emphasis.

"I don't think that's the right syntax, but that's alright. Why are you different with Arabs, then?"

His large, furry head swung around, eyes and teeth grinning brightly. "We are smarter, and we were _first_."

"The first what?" I asked.

"_Hameh_," He said, making a sweeping gesture with his paw. "Everything."

"Ah," I replied. Mohammed reminded me of a friend of mine named Panos. He was a goat, and his family owned some olive farms back in Greece. One night, we'd gotten drunk at a bar, and Panos' overwhelming patriotism got the better of him. Remember this story the next time you go on a jingoistic binge.

"Tux," he slurred, grasping my collar with his hoof. "Guess who invented olive oil?"

I grinned, my smile warmed by alcohol. "The Italians?" I answered earnestly. It felt right.

Panos' face grew dark. "_Fuck_ the Italians! It was us! It was Greece! We invented wine, olives, Alexander the Great! It was _us!"_

"What did you say about Italians?" rumbled a voice from behind me.

Panos released my collar, and his glazed eyes travelled up and over my head. Somebody was standing there. He spoke slowly.

"Fuck. The. Italians."

I started laughing hysterically, and collapsed with my head on the bar. You ever notice how funny things are when you've been drinking? This was great timing, because as soon as I fell, a massive, muscled fist passed over my body and hit Panos squarely on his bearded chin. Panos tumbled backwards off the bar stool and landed on the floor with a thud. I sat straight up and managed to spin myself around.

An Italian mastiff of unbelievable size was standing over Panos, crackling his knuckles and baring his teeth. This wasn't a dog. It was a monstrosity. Gigantic muscles rippled under his short, grey fur. I had to strain to reach up and put my flipper on his shoulder. I could do this. I could talk sense into this fellow.

"Hey, puppy, easy. Sit! Down, boy!" I could hardly string together a sentence. Nobody was getting any sense tonight.

With a growl, his enormous head snapped in my direct. He looked down over his shoulder at me. His lip quivered in rage, and drool drained from his fang-filled mouth. This guy was pissed and was ready to take it out on someone. He was probably drunk, too; I could smell the alcohol. That might have been me, now that I think about it. _Okay. Someone might leave here in the ambulance_, I thought.

"If you touch me again, I will snap your beak off," he snarled.

"Fair enough," I slurred my response. I was pretty far gone.

My other flipper had wrapped itself around an empty bottle of Sam Adams. I gently removed my appendage from the mastiff's shoulder and took a step back. If I balanced myself correctly, I could bash him on the head with the bottle. Our new Italian friend turned his focus back to Panos, who still lay on the floor, on his back.

I seized the opportunity and struck with all my might on the side of his head. The end result was a noise that sounded like a loud TINK! and one very, very angry dog. Panos had chosen this moment to recover his wits, however. Using his powerful hind legs, he rocked forward and exploded upward from the ground, and he drove his notoriously hard head square into the mastiff's stomach. The mastiff grunted and stumbled back a couple steps. He put one hand on his mouth and looked at Panos with a baleful stare. Then he puked all over the floor.

We ran the hell out of that bar, and I learned a lesson. Never disparage another man's people.

"You know, Mo… Can I call you that?" The cabbie shot me a venomous glance in the mirror that said this was a big 'no.' "Mohammed, this is America. We got a lot of people here, and they're all from different backgrounds. I know we don't have a great track record of being equal with all our people, but you have to give it a shot. Surely you have something you and Arabs agree upon."

"_Albateh, albateh. _Of course," he answered. "While we may be Shi'i, and they Sunni, we agree on the Prophet, praise be unto his name, and on God!"

"Well, there you go! You share the same God. No need to blow up over anything," I joked. Yes, I'm a dick.

Mohammed drew in a long breath, and sighed a long, sad sigh. "Remember this, _aziz-am_, that more have died for your democracy than in all our struggles in history. Your country fights for freedom of truth, but the real truth is hidden before your eyes. Hidden from your eyes, but not from Heaven. The victims of your democracy, your justice, are everywhere. Look with your eyes. We Muslims will worry about our own evil. You would do well to worry about yours."

He remained silent for the rest of the ride. I remembered the Siberian Tigers from the apartment earlier. Declawed and left to die in poverty. _Nobody's perfect, but at least we're free, _I thought.

When we reached my apartment, I stuck a wad of bills in his paw and thanked him for the ride. His paw grasped my flipper firmly. "_Doost-am_, my friend, remember. Muslims are friends of justice, and I sense that you are as well! When you seek one of us out, greet them _salam aleikom._ Peace upon you! And when they seek you, reply to them _aleikom al-salam! _And upon you! Greet them as brothers, and they will seek justice with you. And when you part, say to them again _salam aleikom! _Meet them with peace, and depart from them in peace."

I grinned. "Good tip, friend. But if you say the same thing both times, how do you know if you're coming or going?"

Mohammed withdrew his paw and smiled. "God protect you. _Khoda_ _hafez._" His cab sped off in the rain, never to be seen again. Until, of course, he found his next fare.

I snapped out of my daydream. I had zoned out for ten minutes, standing frozen in the kitchen with vodka in my flipper. I held the bottle in front of me, and in my beautiful falsetto, I voiced the bottle's reply. "And _aleikom al-salam _to you, Tux!" The liquor would be going into my beak, and then leaving out my nether region. Coming and going, very appropriate.

I went into my room and sat on the edge of the bed. I turned on the TV, and clicked through the channels with the obnoxious metal knob. Local news had a report about my murder scene, but first they had a story about a three-legged dog that could catch Frisbees. _Perfect drinking show_, I thought. I unscrewed the cap, tilted the bottle to my lips, and submerged myself in Hell.

I could feel the liquor traveling down my throat and into my stomach. The warming in my belly was like shaking hands with an old friend. It was sitting next to a fireplace on a cold winter night. It was holding hands with a cute girl. These were good things, warm feelings. These were good intentions.

You know what they say, though. The road to Hell is paved in good intentions. Fatigue and stupor washed over me. The sound of the TV melded into the sound of crashing waves and squawking gulls. The chill in my apartment became the cold lands in the North. I sipped the rest of the bottle, and the devil stole me away to sleep and submerged my consciousness in the nightmares of the past.


	4. Chapter 4: Howl

**Howl**

It'd been twenty years since the murder of my family. Twenty cold years, harsher than the dead of winter in the tundra on which my family eked out its living. There were seventeen of us, and we lived on a cove in northern Alaska. We were fisherpenguins, and we made a decent living selling our catch. It was cold, certainly; days would come where we struggled just to keep warm. I had a lovely wife and two beautiful children, and we lived next to my brothers and sisters and their families in a small hamlet down the road from the main village. Like the Northern Lights, life was striking, mesmerizing. The cold that brought the beauty of the lights also brought beauty to our hearts and minds.

Twenty years have passed since I set out early one morning, before my brothers and father had awoken. Up in the village, I'd heard stories of a great white fish that'd been spotted in the early hours before twilight. The idea was intriguing, and I felt sure catching such a creature would be worth quite a lot in the fish market. I know my wife had been eyeing a pair of earrings the window of the local jeweler, so I was ready for a windfall.

I paddled from the shore into the dark morning gloom in my brother's canoe, silently gliding along the trail of black, icy water that lay between ice floes. The morning was cold, and the sky was blotted out by an ebon fog. The sound of the oar slicing the water was the only one that disturbed the still twilight. I could see no more than perhaps fifteen feet in front of me, though the widening and then disappearance of the floes to my sides told me I'd entered open water.

I waited for two hours, and the mysterious fish never appeared. My only companions were the meter of the ceaseless waves that caressed my canoe, and the yellow lance of the lighthouse that occasionally pierced the fog. Yet, strangely, I do recall something now that I never thought about. I was graced with the presence of two ravens. It was odd, seeing them atop a buoy. They seemed to levitate with the gentle rocking of the waves, those black silhouettes, and were as silent as the night itself. Their presence was immeasurably queer for a multitude of reasons: the tundra was no home to ravens, and they were certainly not birds of the sea. Their stoic sentry atop the man-made island belied their alien nature.

The white creature did not answer to my whimsical silent summoning, and so I decide to return. Turning my back to the black watchers and the sun, which had begun its ascent from the dark, I began the journey home through the gloom. The occasional squawk of the seagulls disquieted the journey. This was to be the final peaceful moment of my life. It was the final moment before silence called forth the nightmares I first intimated that day.

As I made my way back through the small valley of the ice floes, a brutal roar shattered the quiet, and this dreadful thunder was followed by screams. I feared the knowledge that drilled into my soul; the sound had come from my village. Mustering the strength that only a man who's heard a deathly siren can, I paddled furiously through the damned black water, savagely tearing apart the water with my oar. The adrenaline flowed through my veins, and terror gnawed at my mind like the tundra's cold gnawed at the limbs. _Please God,_ I prayed, _Let them be safe!_

As you might have guessed, I was given no such mercy. The instant the shore came into view, I saw the carnage. Several bodies lay on the shore, and dark red rivers of blood streamed like hellish tributaries into the sea. _Please, _I begged.

"Hold on!" I shouted. "Hold on guys!"

I abandoned the boat and dove in the water. I swam to shore as quick as I could, passing horrible red clouds where the blood began to swim in the sea, mixing with the water. I emerged from the shore and nearly stepped in what was left of my brother. He'd been torn apart by something massive, something strong. Blood and entrails smeared his fur and the gravel underneath. His wife was next to him, face bashed in. I vomited once, and then again. _Oh shit, shit shit. No!_

I stumbled back from the horror, falling into the snow. I looked down. Monstrous, clawed tracks led away from the bodies. My heart shattered, and my breath ceased. The behemoth was in pursuit of smaller penguin tracks, leading up to the village. I followed them at a sprint, climbing the hill to where my family had been sleeping in peace just hours ago.

I found my brother's son, my nephew, a hundred feet from his parents. The realization was soul- crushing; his parents had forced him to flee while they covered his escape. It was too little, too late for the young boy. He met the same brutal fate as them. Hot tears flowed from my eyes, coating and freezing my break. I screamed in rage, and continued the killer's trail at top speed.

Our village was a small, cozy affair, with half a dozen wooden shacks more or less centered on an open plaza. It was simple, but afforded us our open, neighborly lifestyle with our next-door relatives. The plaza, once a cornerstone of my family and home to bonfires, children's games, and argument about who caught what, had turned into a killing field. Cresting the hill, I could see more bodies, and though my body was tired, i charged headlong into this surreal nightmare. My family had been destroyed in every sense of the word. Blood and bone now comprised the earth which yesterday was snow and mud. My father and mother, broken and bloody, protruded from the crushed remains of their home. My eldest cousin lay face down in the snow. The back half of his head was missing, and the gray insides

oozed down the side of his face. At least a dozen died here. I began to search frantically for my wife, my children. A set of small penguin tracks, pursued by massive prints, led away from the village.

I took a step towards them, and heard a gasp. I whirled around, searching for signs of life. A body lay around the corner of one of the wrecked shacks, a flipper shuddering. I flew around the corner to find horror.

It was my sister, her down soaked completely scarlet. She was breathing deeply. I dropped to my knees, and pulled her close.

"Oh, God!" I shouted.

"Tennessee," she gasped. "It's huge… run!"

"No! Where is Ellie? Where are my children!" I managed through gritted teeth, tears flowing down my face. I could feel with my right flipper a river of blood flowing from her side. She'd been gutted.

"White... Tenn… Run!" she shuddered, and lay still.

I buried my face in my dead sister's down and wept.

"Goddammit!" I screamed. _Why is this happening?_

I leapt to my feet. I too was soaked in blood. Wet, cold, and powered by fear and rage, I sprinted after the tracks that led out of the village. My thoughts raced in my head. Something huge, something fast, something dreadful, had ascended from the depths of Hell itself and into my life. The tracks of the beast were huge, impossible. It had to be a bear of unthinkable size, and it was chasing my loved ones. I was armed with nothing.

I plowed on ahead. I would face the beast with nothing but body and fury. Come Hell or high water, I was coming!

I ran along hurriedly, shouting the names of my wife and children, but was met only with the whispers of the wind and the soft crunch of snow. The sky, a morose, ashen grey color, sprinkled large wet flakes that floated to the ground like silent spirits that had lost their will to rise to Heaven. The tracks vanished from sight in the woods ahead of me. I could see snapped branches and tree trunks. It looked like a bulldozer had driven straight through the forest.

I heard snarling, and it was soon joined by soft whimpers. I plunged into the forest, following the large swath of destruction. I glimpsed the outline of a giant, quavering mass of white against the brown of the winter forest.

_Jesus, it's huge!_ I thought. _Please don't let me be too late!_

I ran into a small, snow covered clearing and took in the scene. The colossus, a white troll, a polar bear of fearsome size and girth stood head, shoulders, and torso above my height, staring at my family, snarling. My sons hid behind Ellie, who was staring at the beast in the eyes. My children cringed, crying, and the bear snarled. Ellie didn't make a sound or move a muscle. She didn't flinch until the moment I arrived, and her eyes only moved to me for a split second. She was a damn good mother.

I heard sirens in the distance. _Yes!_ I thought. _We can make this!_

"Hey, you!" I shouted. The creature turned. It's large, black eyes locked with mine. They say that eyes are mirrors into the soul, but not with this behemoth. There was nothing there. No recognition, no emotion. He was a killing machine.

"You're done for, you son of a bitch! They're coming, and you're going to pay!" I spat. "You murderer!"

His mouth opened, and he spoke slowly. His voice was deep, breathy. It was sinister in sound and word. The hairs on my body stood straight up as he spoke.

"I am a hunter, like you. Allow me to chase my quarry, and I will let you on your way," he growled.

"Like hell, you fucker!" And with that, I charged forward. There was nothing to stop the beast from hurting my family except me.

He barked an evil laugh and turned to face my assault. I sprinted as fast as I could, letting my anger and hatred spur me forward. The bear was nonplussed, and he watched my approach with disinterested eyes. When I was feet away, I leapt with every ounce of strength I had, intending to drive my beak into ones of his hateful black eyes.

Quick as white lightning, a massive arm swung around and swatted me effortlessly from my trajectory. My wife and children screamed in horror as I spun through the air like a doll. I felt like I was on a merry go round in space, and my vision spun ruthlessly as I tumbled in the void. The last thing I saw was a large tree trunk rushing forward to meet me.

When I awoke, the snow had ceased falling and the clouds had pulled away, revealing the pale moon and her cadre of shining stars. Every part of my body shrieked in pain as I climbed to my feet. _Oh God!_

"Ellie!" I shouted! "John! Red!"

I stumbled blindly through the snow with branches snagging my skin every second. Each step was a throbbing jolt in my chest. I soon saw the clearing, and hurried forward.

There was nothing, save blood and snow. A pool of crimson several feet across with giant, red tracks leading away from the scene was all that was left of my family. I sank to my knees in the midst of the carnage. I couldn't register what had happened. I couldn't believe. I couldn't think. There was nothing, only a sinking void where my sense of self used to be.

My eyes made out a shape in the blood. It was the silver cross necklace Ellie had worn. It was a gift from her grandfather. My flipper reached out hesitantly and grasped it by the chain. It was stained red with blood. I clutched to my chest, and the cold metal against my down brought the realization crashing down upon me.

I screamed at the moon, filling the air with rage, hatred, grief, and despair. Everyone I loved had been taken away from me. I was alone. I had nothing but vengeance and sorrow now. I wept.

I woke up in the apartment the next morning in a drunken stupor. Someone was pounding on my door. I wiped the tears from my face with the back of my flipper, threw on my tie, and placed the fedora on the top of my head.

Just another damn day.


	5. Chapter 5: I Am the Eggman pt 1

**I Am the Eggman (pt. 1)**

_Chumley_, I told myself,_ you're just a paid alarm clock these days._

I raised my flipper to knock on the door to Tux's apartment again. I assumed he was passed out on the floor, drunk. If he didn't answer the door soon, I'd have to kick down the door again. My partner was a great cop and an even better friend, but the man was an emotional wreck. Twenty years of baggage weighed heavily on his mind. I tried not to judge the poor man, as I could not begin to imagine what I would do if I lost my family in such a violent tragedy as his. Just the thought of losing my wife and daughter made my heart ache.

I heard movement from inside. Footsteps made their way to the door in a belabored manner, and the heavy beige door creaked open. Tux, looking all the world a mess, glared at me with bleary eyes.

"You look like someone stuffed you in a fridge, pushed it down some stairs, and then blew up the building the fridge was in." I said. "And why aren't you wearing anything except a hat and tie?"

Tux said nothing, but looked down to survey his body. He looked up in surprise. "I remember doing this, but I honestly don't know why." He waved me inside, and I caught wind of the alcohol on his breath.

"Are you still drunk?" I asked. Tux scratched his head and shrugged.

I don't know how his liver still functioned, let alone his brain. The Captain and I took him to a rehab clinic once and had him checked in. He managed to stay clean for a couple months after that. We were trying to save him, but Tux didn't care. He wanted the alcohol to finish what his family's killer started. His drinking never interfered with his work, so there wasn't much the force couldn't do. It was up to us, his friends, to make sure he didn't do anything drastic in his off hours.

For you younglings out there wondering why a respectable crew of animals would bother to spend their free time ensuring a creature so self-absorbed in his own problems didn't commit gradual (if not sudden) suicide, I urge you to re-examine exactly where you are in life. Your family and friends are the most sacred treasures God may give you in this world, so guard them well. As Tennessee Tuxedo found out so many years ago, you never know when they'll be taken away from you. Guard them with your life, because some things can't be replaced.

If my spiritual blathering offends you, let me put it another way. Grow a pair. Stick up for your friends. Fight for your family. Those are the rules of the street. Live by them, and you if you don't die a happy walrus, at least you'll die knowing you did something right.

"Hey, bud." I told Tux. "Go throw on some pants, and let's get out of here. That crazy wolf is out of the hospital, and I figured you wanted to chat with him."

"Damn straight I do," he said. He shuffled into his bedroom.

I sauntered into the kitchen and pulled open the fridge door. Behind a maze of half empty bottles, I found a couple eggs. I took them out, grabbed Tux's one frying pan from the sink, and started frying them.

"Tux," I called. "I _have_ a wife. I don't want _be_ yours."

"I thought you were my mom," my partner replied sardonically.

I sighed, and looked for something to poke the eggs with. Finding nothing else, I grabbed Tux's cell phone from the counter and pushed the quickly frying yolks around.

"Is my phone out there?" Tux asked from the other room.

"I don't see it," I replied. I swirled the top of the phone around in the goop for good measure. "Hangover cure coming up!"

"Thanks, pal," said Tux, stepping into the kitchen. He was stuffing a cross that hung around his neck down his collar. He stopped when he saw me scraping the fried eggs onto a plate with his phone. "I swear to God, I'm going to throw you out a window."

I smiled.

"Swear to God? I didn't think you did that anymore."

Tux simply grunted. Like all good walruses, we were devoted Catholics. Tux's loss of faith deeply saddened me, though his insistence on wearing that cross necklace gave me hope.

"I know you feel that way, but I see you wearing that thing around your neck. Faith in the Holy Lamb doesn't mean nothing bad ever happens to us. That's never promised, Tux. It means that we are never alone in our times of struggle and loss."

"I have faith that I will exact my righteous vengeance on any walrus that uses my phone as a spatula. And yea, it will be a mighty vengeance," he said scowling. He plucked his phone from my flipper tips.

My wife and I never stopped trying to restore Tux's broken mental state. Murder is the survivor's tragedy, and Tux had received his fair share of tragedy. I believe that in everything there is a purpose, and that darkness exists solely for us to drive it away with light. Tux had managed to turn his personal disaster into a mission, leaving his home in remote Alaska to become a cop here in the toughest precinct in the country. He's solved many cases and saved quite a few lives. He was a damn fine detective, but inside he was still empty. The slaughter of his family had turned him into a vessel for good, but it was just an empty shell filled with nothing except alcohol and duty.

I learned over the years that Tux had been a penguin of faith before the incident. He grew up Presbyterian, I think. I found a dust covered Bible in the bottom of box when I snuck into his apartment to make sure he wasn't hiding any guns I didn't know about. It was covered in notes in handwriting I recognized as his and other notes written in a very girly handwriting. I figured this was one of the few pieces of proof that Tux possessed that proved his wife had been real, been alive. The cross that he wore now was another piece of evidence, but seemed more like a shackle than article of faith. Tux had lost his inner and outer world that night. I marveled that he was still alive.

"What are you staring at? If you wanted some eggs, you should have made yourself some," said Tux. I had zoned out staring at his plate of food. "You want to get some coffee?"

I stroked my tusk. "Yeah," I said. "Let's get out of here."


	6. Chapter 6: Billy Idol Goats Gruff

**Billy Idol Goats Gruff**

"What do you say, Chum?" I said, leaning back in my frigid, metal folding chair. "Nice day for a white wedding, huh?"

"Yeah, you're right," Chumley replied. "It's a nice day to start again."

We were in the small, claustrophobic, concrete-lined interrogation room, which was lit only by a single light swinging overhead. This was the only room left in the whole city like this. The captain insisted that one room be preserved in the old, intimidating style. I liked it. The wolf, who sat handcuff-bound across a small black table from us, definitely did not. His yellow eyes were wide, glancing nervously back and forth between me, Chumley, and the door. The room combined with our non sequitur interrogation style was really throwing him for a loop. His insanity from last night had dissipated.

I grinned. Nobody could hold up to relentless allusions to bad classic rock. You might laugh. You might call it cruelty. Whatever you call it, don't call it worthless. Chumley and I have worked out a pretty good system for making criminals crack. One time, we got a confession from a lawyer who killed his wife after just three hours of Safety Dance.

"Have you ever been to Australia, Mr. Daniels?" asked Chumley. "Do you come from a land down under?"

"W-w-what?" he stammered. "What's that supposed to mean?"

I leaned in close. "Can't you hear, can't you _hear_ the thunder?" I asked.

"Who the fuck are you?" he screeched. "Why am I here? Where's my lawyer?"

"You don't seem to know a whole lot about your situation, do you, Anthony Daniels? Can I call you Tony?"

It turned out our friend here had quite a lot of heroin in his body last night. He claimed he woke up in the hospital under armed guard with a bullet in his leg and had no idea how he got there. A likely story.

"I've always liked the name Antoinette," offered Chumley.

Daniels turned his head to face Chum.

"Don't I know you from somewhere? And aren't one of you supposed to be the good cop?" he asked.

"I'm the guy who saved your life, Antoinette. I put a bullet hole in your leg, but trust me, I saved your life in the process," Chumley replied.

The wolf started panting. When his nose turned dry, we'd know he was really starting to crack.

"Look, Antoinette," I said. "What's a…" I paused for effect, making a show of thumbing through the file in front of me. "…A twenty-two year old grad student in international law doing running around late at night trying to murder a cop? You can't bullshit me, pal. You had enough heroin in your body to knock my partner's mom unconscious, and you say you don't remember jackshit, but I bet you remember exactly what happened. You remember trying to beat the shit out of me with a pipe. And I bet you remember why, too."

"I don't know what you're talking about, and I want my lawyer!" he practically shouted.

Chumley, who was sipping from a styrofoam cup of coffee, spoke up.

"The DA's office has been notified, and one is being furnished for you. Due to usual red tape in this business, it'll take a little while. Just settle down, and help us understand a couple things. It'd be a shame if there was any confusion," he said calmly.

"I just want my lawyer," Daniels said sullenly.

"Anyway you want it," began Chumley.

"That's the way you need it," I finished. I don't know where society would be without Journey.

The door opened behind us, and our old friend Panos the Greek goat stepped in the room. He was a detective in another division that often worked closely with forensics, and he liked to give us a heads up if they had anything good on our investigations.

"Are you my lawyer?" asked the wolf.

"Are you Greek?" asked Panos, handing me a piece of paper.

The wolf shook his head.

"Then no." Panos cackled and walked out the door.

Chumley and I put our heads to together and quickly scanned the paper, all the while humming "Cum On Feel The Noize." I quickly perused the contents and glanced at Chum. We both had the same irritated expression on our face, and doubtless the same thought running through our decrepit old skulls.

"Mr. Daniels," I began.

His body jerked, and he looked at me.

"You say my singing's out of time," I said.

"But it makes you money," replied Chumley.

"And I don't know why," I finished. I pushed the chair back from the table and stood up. "I don't know why."

"Why do you keep quoting those awful songs?" he cried as I walked around to the other side of the table. "What are you doing?"

I pulled a handcuff key from my pocket and unlocked the cuff on his right side. It was the side that was holding the pipe that Chumley had magnificently blown out of his hand with a well placed pistol shot. His marksmanship had broken a couple bones, though, and there was a cast on the end of the paw. Too bad. I grabbed his wrist and pulled it above his head and flopped his paw around a little. It was just enough to let him know that I knew that it was still hurting, and that I could make it a lot worse. He whimpered.

"I've got a funny story here, Daniels. The doctor said last night when they brought you in, you had some kind of weird grime in your claws. He called us up and asked if our boys would be interested in checking it out. Forensics here just let me know you had your paws full of ammonium nitrate. You know anything about that?"

"I don't know what that is," the wolf replied carefully, eyeing the paw I held in my flipper. "I'm a law student, not a chemist."

"International law, right?" asked Chumley. "How many languages do you know?"

That was a damn good question. I'd nearly forgotten about how he'd curled up on the street there in the rain, muttering guttural gibberish to himself.

"O-o-only one, really. I mean, I took a few classes in Chinese, but that's it!" he stammered. I put my other flipper on the cast.

"Honest! I swear!" He shouted. He really didn't want me to squeeze that paw.

"Alright, Charlie-fucking-Chang, here's the mystery. Yesterday, I get an apartment full of dead bodies in the ghetto and traces of ammonium nitrate all over the place. A few hours later, a guy comes out of nowhere with ammonium nitrate embedded in his paws trying to kill me. You have to agree that this pretty fucking fishy," I said.

"What my friend here is trying to say is that you're not only up for assault and drug charges, but you're now a murder suspect," asserted Chumley.

The wolf said nothing. I put his paw back in the cuffs and dropped it in his lap. I resumed my seat next to Chumley and took a sip of his coffee. He shot me a disgruntled look. Daniels stared downwards.

"They won't convict me of murder. There's no proof," our lupine friend said quietly.

"Oh?" said Chumley.

"You won't find my DNA on them, and you won't find their blood on my claws."

Chumley and I exchanged looks.

"It's funny that you assume no weapon was involved, Tony. Maybe you know someone who would have blood on their claws. Maybe someone big?" I asked.

The wolf stiffened, but continued staring downwards. I waved Panos' forensic report in the air.

"My team found hairs from a Kodiak bear in the apartment with the ammonium nitrate. Who is he? Is that a friend of yours?" I continued.

Daniel's head snapped forward, his teeth bared in a wicked snarl. His eyes, which before were nervous and tired, became hectic and wild, just like the night before. His piercing yellow gaze met my eyes.

"Holy shit!" hissed Chumley. It _was _a shocking change of face.

"Verily, the infidels are your undoubted enemies!" Daniels growled hysterically.

"Holy shit!" I repeated after Chumley. "Is this some kind of crazy fucking cult?"

"O Prophet! Strive hard against the unbelievers and the hypocrites!" the wolf spat and fell silent.

I rubbed my face with my flippers. _What the hell is going on?_

The door opened behind us once again, and another welcome face appeared. Olson peaked inside.

"Well, Chum, I think this interview is about over," I said. It wouldn't be a moment too soon.

"Oh," said Olson with a wink, "It's _more_ than a feeling!"

She'd heard of our song game, apparently, and threw in a fastball. She was cute and knew about the great band Boston. I chuckled.

"What brings you here, Olson?"

"Dropping off a visitor, sir. I apologize for running a little late. Apparently, the janitor locked him in the bathroom by mistake." She winked again.

A stuffy-looking iguana with a sharp black suit and a briefcase pushed his way into the room, muttering to himself.

"I am _here_ to see my _client_! I will have you know that _any information_ extracted before I consult with my client will be _inadmissible_ in a court of…" He trailed off. "What _is_ he doing?"

We all turned to Daniels. His head was bowed forwards, and he was rocking back and forth gently in his chair. It sounded like he was chanting under his breath. It was the same garbage from last night.

"Uh," I started. "I don't know. He did that after we shot him, too."

The attorney scowled and stalked over to Daniels. He opened to his mouth to speak, but he stopped, frowned, and put his head near Westin's mouth.

"Ah, ah, ah," he said. "You'll have to excuse my client for a moment. He's praying."

"To who, Gene Simmons?" I asked.

"No, you twit!" he replied. "To _God. _He's saying the _salat_, the Muslim prayer. It's in Arabic."

Have you ever come across something you had never heard before, and then suddenly it's everywhere the next day? It's a viciously annoying coincidence.

"How do you know that?" asked Chumley.

The iguana stood straight up again. "I was trained in the Navy to be an Arabic linguist many years ago. They kicked me out after _unfairly_ assuming that _I_…" he trailed off once again.

"I can't imagine why anyone would think you were gay," snorted Olson.

"Just because I am a _man_ and I enjoy _ballet_, that doesn't mean anything! Hypocrites, all of them!" he spluttered.

Chumley looked back at Olson. "Thank you, Sergeant. That will be all." He was suppressing a grin.

Olson glanced at me and I shot her a wink. She disappeared behind the door, smiling. _That goose is fine! _I thought.

"You know what, Chum? You're a smoother guy than me, so I'll let you take over from here. I'll catch up later. I've got two tickets to paradise." I stood up and pushed in my chair.

"Let me guess. You didn't get one for me," he replied sourly.

"Chumley, those aren't the words to the song," I said shaking my head in great disappointment. "Do you even know how to play this game?"

I could hear him gnashing his teeth even after I closed the door.


	7. Chapter 7: They Are The Eggmen pt 2

**They Are the Eggmen (pt 2)**

_Where has that idiot gone now?_I wondered. I tugged at my tusk thoughtfully. _Probably wanted to catch up with that Olson girl._

I sighed and leaned back in chair. I was sitting at the desk in the office I shared with Tux, tapping idly at my computer keyboard. My mind was reeling through the events of the past couple days, and I'd been browsing the internet to take my mind off the case. I didn't put my heart into it, though. I think I refreshed about thirty times before I realized that I was simply staring at the screen.

I noticed Brett Favre was out for the rest of the season, at least. Tux's lucky streak in fantasy football was about to come to an end.

_I ho__pe his personal lucky streak keeps up. This case keeps getting stranger and stranger_.

There was a tap at my door. I looked up and saw Panos looking at me through the glass. He jerked his head over his shoulder. I grabbed my coat and joined the goat for a walk.

Panos wordlessly led the way out of the station. We pushed through the crowd of cops, crooks, and worried women that constantly clogged the entrance, and when we got to the sidewalk, Panos steered us towards a pub down the street.

"Where's Tux?" he asked.

I looked up at the gray sky. The weather was frigid; I could see my breath. It seemed we'd be seeing snow soon.

"I don't know," I replied earnestly. "I think he grabbed lunch with that goose, Olson."

Panos bleated in disdain.

"A guy could get busted down for fraternization pulling that sort of shit. That's the least of our worries, though."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"I'll tell you inside," he replied.

We stopped outside a narrow, brown door that went into one of the buildings. This was the entrance to Top's, the local underground pub. It was low key and dark, two necessary ingredients in a place served both detectives and their informants. The owner, an old mole named everybody called Top, operated his admittedly dank establishment with no small degree of dignity; he had a wide selection of micro-brews on top and a small, quality menu for lunch.

I opened the door, and I was immediately struck with a blast of warmth and the alluring aroma of food cooking. We descended a flight of rickety, wooden stairs into the dimly light bar below.

"Hot damn, I love this place," muttered Panos behind me.

Top, a stereotypical bar owner if there ever was one, polished a glass at the counter. He nodded curtly, his long mole nose twitching. While generous with food, he sparingly gave patrons his words. Panos held up two nubs on his hoof to indicate two drinks. We sat down at a booth in the corner lit only by a dim lamp overhead.

"I've been talking with some guys from another department, and it seems like your boys weren't the only ones to get killed over some fertilizer," bleated Panos in a low voice.

I stroked my tusk. "Really? That's interesting."

"No. Two other cases. Nobody was as torn up as your guys, but one of them was shot through the chest with some kind of massive pistol. They found bear fur at that site as well."

"And the other?" I asked.

"Similar, but definitely different killer. They found jackal hair in an apartment along with a torn bag of fertilizer twenty blocks west of here. A croc's head was found ripped off from the body. Looked like a couple different pairs of teeth did the job."

The beers arrived. Top wordlessly set them down and stood by the table, motionless and waiting.

I glanced at Top. He didn't move. I frowned at Panos, but he only help up a hoof to silence me.

Panos reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a stack of bills. I could see a 100 stamped on the corner. _Holy moly,_ I thought. _That's some serious cash._

The wad of cash went silently into Top's massive, outstretched claws. He beckoned us to follow him.

I grabbed my beer and stood up, and Panos did the same. The mole opened a door marked MANAGER at the end of the room and stepped inside. We followed. Inside the room was a surprisingly well lit and tidy office. Two laptops and a desktop computer sat on a glass top desk. Four pairs of headphones slumped over the large, flatscreen monitor of the desktop. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and they were filled with magazines and newspapers in strange, foreign script. There were also several hundred books of various shapes and sizes.

"Cripes, Top. I've never been back here before. This is a pretty swank setup," said Panos.

Top took a seat at his desk and glanced at Panos. "Yes," he replied in a gravelly voice.

Panos squinted at the bookshelf. "Hey, Top. Is that _Twilight_ I see?"

Top shrugged wordlessly. "I get bored."

"What is it that you wanted to tell us, Top?" I asked. I'd never been back here either, but I was less interested in the surprising setup and more interested in his intention.

"News. There's word that a large brown bear purchased a warehouse near downtown and has been stockpiling something inside. It's heavily guarded by a private security company. Supposedly it's a company that used to subcontract with Blackwater in Iraq, but Blackwater broke the contract with them when they decided they were too crazy, even for them."

Panos laughed. "Too extreme for Blackwater? What did they do, firebomb Dresden?"

Top shook his head. "That, I don't know. Some say the T-Group took to kidnapping civilians they suspected of knowing terrorists and interrogating them. Few know about it. Few know about it, so it was never investigated."

"The T-Group? Is that what they're called?" I asked.

Top nodded. "Yes. They used to be called Tahrir Security, but they changed the name after 9/11. It's an Arabic word that means freedom."

"Muslim security group? Are they sort of like Ahmed Security*?" asked Panos.

"No," replied the mole. "They were founded by Nation of Islam members. The NoI is an American cult offshoot of Islam. They're more akin to those Christian militias that the government went after in Wisconsin a year or two back."

"Ah," I said. "I remember them. Supposedly, they killed Malcom X once he broke away and converted to a real branch of Islam."

"That's the story," said Top.

Panos and I stood in silence. That wolf I shot was muttering some kind of Muslim prayer in the interogation, and he was batshit crazy. Was he connected to these T-Group goons? He obviously knew about that damn Kodiak, that was for sure.

I scratched my tusk uncomfortably. "So we have multiple cases of murders connected to disappearing stashes of ammonium nitrate connected to a warehouse taking mystery shipments of _something_. A security group run by an Islamic cult keeps the place on lockdown for their unknown bear employer. A crazy wolf with fertilizer in his claws prays in Arabic accidentally lets on he knows a big bear. This is coming together in a rather worrying manner."

"The bear isn't unknown," said Top. "His name is Norrick Ostergard. He's a Swedish immigrant that fell in with the Nation of Islam brotherhood when he did jail time for robbery a few years back."

"Top, did you tip off the feds?" asked Panos.

The mole shrugged. "I tried. Most of my contacts have retired, and the agencies are replacing them with contractors. It's cheaper for the government, but they're less interested in the mission and more interested in the paycheck. Won't even give me the time of the day."

"Why would they listen to you anyway?" I asked. "You're an NYPD informant, not an FBI agent."

Top gave a rare smile and jerked his head towards the wall behind him. A dozen plaques or more line the walls. I hadn't bothered to read through them earlier. They all started with "From the Office of the Director of…" and listed very mole-like organizations. The NSA. CIA. DIA. DoD. Some of them weren't even in English.

"Oh," I said sheepishly. He'd been around.

"Top, would you have given us this information without the payment?" asked Panos in a pained voice.

The mole winked. I'd never seen him wink before. Panos sighed.

"That information was free," said the mole. "But this is for your money. There's a polar bear at the state penitentiary here. He's a convert to Sunni Islam, none of that NoI cult shit. He used to be some kind of crazed killer 'til he changed over. You'd never know from talking to him, though. I met him while questioning a gangHe's been real helpful to me in penetrating a lot of the Middle Eastern immigrant communities here. I recommend going to see him. He could offer you some tips."

A chill ran down my spine. "What's his name?"

"Oslo. Oslo Westwind."

I swallowed, hard. "Thanks Top. You've been a great help." Panos and I turned to leave.

"Chumley," called Top as Panos opened the door. "You look like you've seen a ghost. You know Oslo?"

"No," I said. This was a troubling revelation. "I've never met him. My partner has, though."

Panos raised an eyebrow. "When did Tux meet a guy like that?"

"When Oslo murdered his family," I replied.

"Shit," hissed Panos. We sat silently in the door threshold for several moments. "You going to tell him?"

"I have to," I said with a sigh. "Like it or not, this is our job. If the feds won't take up the slack, we'll be the ones to get to the bottom of this."

We walked the rest of the way back to the office in silence. I didn't even get to finish my beer.


End file.
